ME AND
BOBBI© by George
Wilkerson
The Way We Were
The Way We Are
Ed. Note: Bobbi/George is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outing herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting. Earlier articles in the se
ries can be found at
The Central Texas Transgender Society's Web Site
You can also write to the author
[This is how it was for us...for too long a time not too long ago.]
A car door slams.
"What's that?"
"I don't know...leave me alone. Do you think she'd notice if I wore her bustier?"
Bobbi is looking through the drawer, carefully placing each item to one side so she can put them back in the right order, making sure no one can tell she's been going through them. She sighs. "You thought getting rid of my stuff would get rid of ME," she
says. "You should know better than that by now."
"I thought I heard a car door."
She doesn't want to hear me. "I hate squeezing into her things; none of it fits me, you know."
"I think it's her...what's she doing coming home now. She's not due for hours."
Bobbi |
Bobbi stops sorting; our ears are one now, hearing a key turn in a lock. "Oh dear," she mutters, hurrying to put the things back. "We can fix this later," she whispers to me as she shoves the drawers shut.
"George?!" A voice from the foyer calls. "Are you home?"
We scurry into the bathroom and lock the door just as the footsteps reach the bedroom. "Is that you?"
I call out "I'm in here!"
The door handle rattles, but it's locked.
"What are you doing?"
"Just got out of the shower...be out in a minute!"
We leave the hosiery attached to the garters, nearly ripping off the bustier, socks falling out of the bra cups, heart beating frantically as we look around for something, anything male to wear.
"I thought you said you were going to work late."
Brushing hair, yanking off earings and necklace. "Dammit," Bobbi mutters as the clasp breaks in her hand.
"Just get the hell out of here," I mutter to her.
"What?" the wife's voice asks.
"Nothing...just...er...muttering."
Bobbi is angry. "I thought she wasn't coming home 'til later."
I'm angry too...and afraid. "That's what she told me. And you've got to go..she can't find you here."
"You're such a coward. You should just tell her. I'm you too, dammit."
I shake my head, grabbing the pajamas from the hook on the back of the door. "No...not now. She couldn't handle it...she'd leave. Now go away."
Tossing the panties and the bustier (the stockings still attached) behind the shower curtain, I open the door cautiously. I can hear her in the kitchen now.
"When can I come back?" Bobbi asks.
George |
"I don't know...I don't care. We just need to make sure nothing's out of place."
A sadness wells up inside of us. "I'm so unhappy," she says softly. "I just want to get out. Why won't you let me...."
"Oh...there you are." The wife is at the bedroom door. "Why the pajamas in the middle of the day?"
I shrug uncomfortably. "The Hugh Hefner look?" I ask as I walk past her and into the kitchen.
The wife follows me...follows us, but only me, and touches me gently. "Are you feeling OK? You seem a little down."
I turn to her. "No...I'm fine...I just had some stuff I remembered I had to do and felt like I needed a shower. You know?"
She smiles. "Sometimes I just don't know about you."
"Yes...well...sometimes I don't know about myself either."
"Sometimes?" Bobbi's voice whispers. "Sometimes I don't know about MY self."
[And this is how it still is for us...for too many of us for too long.]
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